


I'm A Mountain That Has Been Moved

by demonicweirdo



Series: The Last Address Of Taliesin [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Stiles, Bittersweet Ending, Gods, Holy Grail, Immortal Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Stiles Angst, Stiles-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:10:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3736945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonicweirdo/pseuds/demonicweirdo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you know what you smell like, Stiles?”<br/>Stiles tilted his head, resigned to the fact that he was going to have this conversation because Derek was a stubborn ass. “Old Spice and bubblegum? Ice cream and cats?”<br/>“You smell lonely. And you smell scared. And it's all the time. So you can't blame me for wanting to change that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm A Mountain That Has Been Moved

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the sequel! Just a warning that there will be mentions of an unhealthy past relationship.

Stiles shook his head at Derek, brushing a hand through his hair and taking a few steps away from him. “This isn't working,” he said, turning away and focusing his eyes on the door of the loft.

Derek took a step forward, but not as close as Stiles would've liked him to be. “It's the only thing I can think of right now,” he replied defensively, an underlying growl in his words that had stuck since the first dead-end they had hit.

“What the hell would werewolves care for the Holy Grail, Derek?” Stiles demanded, his voice challenging. He could see himself building up to a fight, and he could see Scott shift uncomfortably from his place on the couch with the rest of the pack. Scott was the only person who could calm Stiles down lately, which meant that instead of staying at the loft like he was expected to by everyone, he was spending nights sleeping on the McCalls' couch.

Derek clenched his jaw, obviously struggling to not give in to Stiles' tone. “It's our best shot, Stiles.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Sure, go ahead. Lets all forget about the fact that, since allying yourselves with hunters, every single werewolf pack you try to talk to isn't going to welcome you with cookies and a hug. Lets forget that some might even try to _fight_ you, because clearly Derek Hale has a martyr complex off the fucking charts.”

Derek's eyes flashed red for a few, brief seconds. “Do you have a better idea?”

“Yes! Just _stop_.”

The room went silent, and Stiles didn't need to look at everyone to tell that all eyes were on him. Derek looked panicked, and he took a step forward, shaking his head. “No, Stiles-”

“You won't find it, Derek,” Stiles said, his voice tired and worn out. “So stop wasting your time.” He turned to the rest of the pack. “Summer break ends in a week, I suggest you go out and... get drunk or whatever.” He turned away from them all, from Derek's arm that had just begun to reach after him, and walked out of the loft.

* * *

Stiles was eating cookies when Scott burst through the door angrily, and he winced when Scott knocked the cookie out of his hand. “What the hell, man?”

Stiles swallowed his mouthful. “Your mom made them for me,” he replied indignantly, looking at the half-eaten cookie forlornly.

Scott sat down in the chair across from Stiles, glaring at him, and Stiles looked back at the plate. He'd eaten half the plate already, but Melissa was accustomed to his appetite and fast metabolism.

“Stiles!” Scott barked out, getting Stiles' attention. “You can't just say that kind of shit.”

Stiles sighed. “Yeah, well, it's true.”

“So, what, are you just going to hang around here until we slowly grow old and die? People would notice if you didn't age.” Stiles squirmed in his seat, not meeting Scott's eyes, and Scott leaned back in his chair. “You're going to leave.” His voice was quiet and incredulous, with a sharp edge to it that Stiles flinched at.

He froze and looked down at his hands. “I can't stay, Scott.”

Scott shook his head. “I don't care. You don't get to leave, Stiles. You're pack.”

Stiles laughed bitterly. “You just met me, Scott. I'm not a werewolf-”

“That doesn't matter and you know it,” Scott said. “You're our friend and you think we're all okay with you just _leaving_? You think Derek would be okay with that?”

Stiles shook his head. “He'd get over it.”

Scott leaned over the table, stealing one of Stiles' cookies. “You're just tired. We all are. But we're close.” Stiles snorted and Scott fixed him with a serious look. “We're working our way down the list.” He shoved the cookie in his mouth and grinned around it. “And Lydia's found something.”

Stiles frowned at the cookie crumbles that Scott had spat out. “What?”

“One of Deaton's books is all theory on the location of the Holy Grail, right? Well, there's this myth that the Grail was stolen by a dragon.”

Stiles tilted his head, considering it. Dragons had been extinct for years, but, before he had arrived in Beacon Hills, Stiles was planning to travel to Shanghai and look into some evidence suggesting they had survived extinction.

“Okay,” Stiles said finally. Scott's eyes widened; he obviously had expected a longer argument. A giant smile took over his face. “I'll stay. But,” Stiles continued, holding up a finger, “on the condition that we all take a break.”

Scott frowned. “But we're _so close_.”

“Close to burning yourselves out. Boyd threw Isaac into a tree the other day,” he reminded Scott. “For making fun of _ice_ -skaters. Take this week off, and then we work after school.” He'd need about a week to exercise his magic anyway, since it was a little rusty.

Scott narrowed his eyes at Stiles. “What about Derek? Are you going to work things out with him?”

Stiles' heart stuttered at the mention of Derek, and he could tell Scott noticed. That little burst of fear spiked in his stomach. “I...” He looked down at his hands. “I don't think it's working out.” _Every time I look at him I see him leaving, either out the door or by death, and it terrifies me. I can't go through that again, not with Derek,_ was what Stiles didn't say.

Instead of pressing the issue, like Stiles knew Scott was itching to do, Scott just clapped him on the shoulder and stood up. “We have to go see Lydia. She's getting Danny to create some fake documents for you.”

Stiles frowned in confusion, holding back the fact that he can make documents himself just fine. “Who's Danny? Why do I need documents?”

The grin on Scott's face struck a new kind of fear into Stiles' heart.

* * *

Stiles pulled a face and fiddled with his backpack straps. “I hate everyone.”

Allison smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “You're ready for high school,” she chirped. She linked her arm through his, and Scott threw an arm around his shoulders. “Just try not to go crazy in history class, okay?”

Stiles groaned. “But they always get it wrong,” he whined, glaring at a freshman that had given him an interested look. She rolled her eyes and walked past them. “Why am I doing this again?”

“Because that time you got stoned, you kept telling us you never had an American high school experience,” Isaac replied, his voice smug from Scott's right. “And that you were doomed to live it vicariously through us. We're doing you a _favor_ , Stiles.”

Stiles winced as the bell screeched from the side of the building, and glared at everything as they made their way inside.

School was torture, and Stiles was _never_ getting high again. Stiles had to correct his chemistry teacher a few _hundred_ times, and he was pretty sure he had made another enemy for life. He was definitely dropping out.

And not to mention how he was pining like a dog pines after chocolate, every stray thought relating back to Derek as though adolescence was taking charge. He wasn't even a _teenager_ . He was two thousand years old, give or take a few years, and yet he was agonising about where he and Derek _stood_ , since they hadn't really talked in a couple of weeks, and barely looked at each other. Stiles couldn't handle looking at him and knowing that if they didn't find the Grail, he'd just lose Derek, and he'd be faced to spend an eternity alone.

Before he met the pack, he had resigned himself to that fate, but now there was _hope_ , and the longer they went without finding the Grail, the more dead ends they hit, the more painful that little bit of hope gets.

Lydia sat next to him in trigonometry, twirling a pen between her fingers. “So, what's your plan?”

Stiles waited until the teacher turned his back to the class and whispered, “I'm taking everyone to Shanghai after school. I know of a few leads there.”

Lydia's eyes widened, her bored demeanour disappearing. “ _Shanghai_? You can do that?”

Stiles rolled his eyes and wiggled his fingers. “I've been recharging my magic. I can't do it non-stop. And you guys have homework, so we're not stopping for long.”

Lydia crossed her legs and pursed her lips, glancing back at the board and scribbling down the notes at super-human speed. “We'll meet up at Derek's as soon as the bell rings.”

Stiles nodded and tried to stay awake the rest of the lesson. He failed. And got detention.

* * *

Stiles staggered back at the rush of magic, letting go of Scott and Isaac's arms. A headache throbbed for half a second, before it faded away, and Stiles opened his eyes.

The bustling sounds of the city assaulted his eardrums, and he really should've prepared for it.

They were in what anyone else would've called the slums: dirt roads and rickety stalls, people dressed in little more than rags.

But it was more than that. A magical, supernatural hotspot. Stiles' magic started buzzing in his fingers the moment they touched down, and he could see Derek sniff at the air curiously, probably picking up the scents of a few dozen supernatural creatures. No one batted an eyelid at the fact that a group of teenagers just spontaneously appeared in the middle of the street.

Stiles took a deep breath and smiled. If he was lucky, his apartment was still there, with all of his research. And that noodle house across the road from it.

His nostalgic mood was broken by the sound of retching. He looked behind him to see Erica, Cora, and Isaac chucking their guts, while everyone else just looked green and uncomfortably sick.

“Sorry,” he said, grimacing. He was given a few dirty looks, until Erica straightened, wiping her mouth, and managed a shaky grin. “We're in _China_ ,” she squealed.

A woman from the stall next to them brightened. “You American?” she asked Erica.

Erica perked up, flashing Stiles a smirk. “Yeah, we are.”

“You werewolf? You buy my moon talisman- very lucky for werebaby.”

Stiles threw a hand on the woman's shoulder. “Old Mei, stop trying to scam my friends.”

Old Mei gave him a stern look and whacked him on the shoulder. “You moron,” she hissed, her thick accent mysteriously disappearing. Almost everyone was fluent in almost all languages in this part of the city. “You were meant to call, Taliesin. I didn't know if you were alive or not.”

Stiles grinned at her. “Well, obviously I am.”

She gave him a judgemental once-over. “Why are you dressed like an American teenager?” She narrowed her eyes at the rest of the pack. “Are you in a gang?”

Stiles laughed and shook his head. “Is Kevin still alive?”

Old Mei nodded and jabbed him with a stick. “You're lucky you're so pretty, or I wouldn't forgive you.” Stiles drew her in for a quick hug, and kissed the top of her head.

He had exorcised a ghost from her granddaughter's apartment, but just as he had finished, he got a phone call about some Patupaiarehe (those guys were actually really nice, and their parties were amazing) and left before he could reassure Mei that her granddaughter was safe. Kind of a dick move, but Stiles had never claimed to _not_ be a dick.

While Stiles led them to his apartment, the pack skipped around with large, carefree smiles on their faces, and Stiles almost let himself believe that this was just a little vacation. Maybe, when it was all over, he could take them to Peru or something. If he could get _into_ Peru this time.

The apartment was locked, so Stiles had to use his magic to jimmy the lock because his landlord, Kevin, wasn't home. And then put all his weight behind shoving the door open because there may have been a few boxes of research in the way. He flailed and tripped on one of them, barely righting himself before he face-planted the ground.

The pack barged in, eight people crammed into about eight square yards of room, and Stiles stumbled to the window to open it.

“It smells gross in here, Stiles,” Lydia said, wrinkling her nose. The werewolves looked like they were going to throw up again, and Stiles shrugged defensively.

“I haven't exactly had time to do the cleaning, living in America and everything,” Stiles replied sarcastically. He waved a hand around vaguely. “Make yourself at home. _Me casa es su casa_.”

Isaac pulled a face as he poked at one of the boxes. “I can smell something dead in here.”

Scott jumped on the threadbare couch and grinned. “Dude, you're like, an adult. You have an apartment and everything."

“It must be the whole, thousands-of-years-old thing,” Allison said dryly, patting Scott on the head patronisingly.

Derek was looking around the apartment with a frown, which Stiles hadn't seen disappear for about a week. “What are we looking for?”

Stiles met his eyes briefly, before crumbling under that green-eyed gaze and looking down at all the boxes. The room was full of them, there was barely enough room to walk. “Anything to do with dragons, probably.”

Boyd heaved a sigh. “Great.”

* * *

Things were going great until Lydia opened her mouth and ruined everything.

“What's this?” she asked Stiles, shoving a file under his nose with a perfectly-manicured hand. She had taken to “slumming it” (Stiles had broken the great Lydia Martin) and was sitting on the floor next to him.

Stiles squinted at the folder, before batting it away dismissively. “You can't summon dragons.”

“Why the hell have you got research on _yogurt_ , Stiles?” Cora asked from across the room.

“You don't want to know,” Stiles replied, waggling his eyebrows and grinning at Cora's disgusted look.

Lydia waved the file around. “Stiles, what if we summoned the god?”

Stiles frowned, still rifling through papers. “What god?” he mumbled distractedly.

“The one who tricked you into drinking from the Grail in the first place.”

Stiles let out a slightly panicked laugh, and his heartbeat speed up noticeably. “Nobody is summoning _anyone's_ exes.” But Lydia's face was serious, and she just raised her eyebrows at him. “ _No._ Have any of you guys ever tangled with a god before? Because they are downright party-poopers, let me tell you. Not fun to be around. Even less fun when they _smite_ you.”

Derek, who had successfully kept his mouth shut and had mastered talking _at_ and not _to_ Stiles, said, “What if it's your only shot?”

Stiles stood up, glaring at Derek, who didn't even look ashamed of his _suggestion_ , and clenched his shaking fingers into a fist. “No. We're not summoning that asshole.”

“This could _save_ you, Stiles!” Derek growled, standing up from the floor as well. His eyes were bleeding red again, and Stiles found his temper rising in indignation. “We all agreed - whatever it takes.”

Stiles shook his head. “Not _this_. He's... He's too much, he – I can't just _see_ him like that, I can't _beg_ him to help me, I can't ask him for anything. I can't do it! And if I have to live the rest of my life alone just so I never see him again? Fine!” Stiles snapped. He shoved past Derek and stopped at the door, one hand curling angrily around the door handle, his knuckles white. “And if you're only doing this so you get the rewards afterwards- a healthy, aging person that will always be there for you – then go find another immortal creature to fix.”

Stiles wrenched the door open and slammed it shut behind him, his footsteps crashing in his ears. When he made it out on to the street, he didn't stop there. He took a breath, which did nothing to calm him down, and felt his magic cover his body like a blanket, hiding his scent and heartbeat from the wolves.

And then he took off, striding down the street with purpose, navigating the paths and stores with practised ease, even as people backed away from the obvious anger he was emanating.

He was human enough to admit that anger was his secondary emotion to the pure _fear_ of the idea that his friends were willing to put themselves in danger for Stiles. And the fear of the idea of seeing Aengus again.

* * *

The bar Stiles arrived at was one of his life's special joys, and he couldn't even tell you why. Maybe it was the fact that they knew his face two hundred years after he first started drinking there, or that it was a base of his Chinese networking.

As soon as he walked in, he had to duck to avoid getting knocked out by a flying bowl of rice. There was a man and a woman behind the counter, throwing things at each other, literally smoking from their hair and shoulders. The bar was open, but empty. Probably had something to do with the flying rice.

“Liang!” Stiles snapped, his hand catching the next bowl that was thrown at him.

Liang looked up at Stiles, his face red with anger, before his shoulders slumped. “Stiles.”

His wife, Sa-kota, relaxed and gave Stiles a warm smile. “Hey, Stiles.” She shot her husband a glare and waved Stiles over, already pouring him a scotch. “What stories do you have for us?”

Stiles sighed heavily, dropped into his seat at the bar, and pulled a face at his glass. “Too many. How long has it been?”

Liang grinned, the couple already over their argument. They were common occurrences, their fiery marriage one of the reasons Stiles found them so interesting. “About two years.”

“Shit,” Stiles swore. “I was only meant to be a week.” He downed his scotch and glanced at the clock, but he had about an hour before he had to take everyone back home. He could let them stew in their own juices for a while.

“So what are you doing back?” Sa-kota asked, wiping down the bench.

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Well, I could just be here to see my favorite married couple.”

Liang gave him a flat look. “You're always too busy to see us. Don't worry,” he added with a smirk at Stiles' affronted look, “we've come to accept that about you. So, what is it this time? Vampires? Goblins? The apocalypse?”

Stiles snorted. “I'm not going to stop the world from ending. There wouldn't be enough money in the world to pay me to do that.”

Liang's eyes softened, and he hooked an arm around his wife's waist. “Then what is it?”

“I'm looking for a dragon.”

There was a brief silence. “You mean, dragons, or... _dragons_?” Sa-kota asked, her face lined with confusion.

Stiles frowned. “Uh... the second one?” He shook his head. “Have you guys heard anything? Any rumors?”

Liang shrugged. “I've heard that they're extinct. At least, in China they are.”

Stiles leaned back in his stool. “My research brought me here, though. Do you know of any scholars or druids that might know something?”

Sa-kota bounced on her feet. “Yes! There's a Japanese werewolf in town, and she said she grew up with dragons.”

Stiles groaned. “Werewolf? Seriously?” It was like he couldn't escape them. They were everywhere, he was a werewolf-magnet.

“What is wrong with werewolves?” Liang asked, taking Stiles' glass to pour another scotch.

Stiles stopped him with a hand to his wrist. “I have a whole werewolf pack at my place, I have to take them back to America. Can't drink and teleport,” he said in a wistful tone.

Sa-kota's eyebrows furrowed together in confusion, and she took a delicate sniff at the air, her eyes turning amber gold and feline-shaped. “Stiles... You smell heart-broken. More so than usual.”

Stiles stood up from his bar stool. “Yeah, just typical teenage angst.”

“You're two thousand years old,” Liang noted with raised eyebrows.

Stiles jabbed a finger at him. “It's rude to comment on people's ages, Li.”

Sa-kota leaned across the bar. “Stiles, what is the matter?” she asked softly, her eyes brown and motherly.

Stiles shook his head, backing out. This was why he didn't have friends. At first, he's spilling all his feelings over the place, the next thing he knows, they're replaced with a gravestone and Stiles has even _more_ feelings to spill all over the place and no one to spill them to. Not a good idea.

“I'll come back later!” he called, turning away and marching out the door. He knew he was going to forget, like always, but it always made people feel better if you tell them you'll see them soon.

When Stiles got back to his apartment, the sky was dark and the air was filled with tension and worry. Lydia stood up immediately, relief plain on her face. “You scared the crap out of us.”

“I wasn't going to leave you!” Stiles exclaimed defensively. _Ye of little faith._

She shook her head while the wolves – and Allison – crowded around, making Stiles feel claustrophobic at how close they were getting. Minus Derek, who was leaning against a wall, glaring at the ground. Stiles cleared his throat and tore his eyes away from him.

“We weren't worried about _that_. It's just... there's heaps of wolves out there,” Isaac said, a small pout on his face. “And other things. I can smell them.”

Stiles nodded. “What you're smelling is manticores, rakshasas, shrtuga, wraiths, and a bunch of monsters that would make your nightmares look like _My Little Pony_ episodes. And,” Stiles continued sternly, “half of them owe me their lives.” He rolled his eyes. “I can handle myself in _Shanghai._ It's nothing compared to Nazareth.”

Scott whacked Isaac on the arm. “Told you.”

Stiles threw his hands up. “What is it about _two-thousand-year-old-_ _sorcerer_  that makes you think I'm some helpless kid?”

“You _look_ like a helpless kid,” Boyd offered, his face stoic, as usual.

Stiles poked his tongue out at Boyd, probably not helping his point. “Yeah, well everybody link hands and hop aboard the Stiles-Express, because you losers have homework to do.”

Everybody grumbled but did as he said, Derek silently joining hands between Erica and Cora, his eyes meeting Stiles' in an unreadable expression. Stiles held them steadily, because even though what he had said was harsh, it was true.

In a blink, they were in Derek's loft, and Stiles staggered back from the sudden exhaustion. He backed into a pillar and slid down it, blinking away the spots in his vision. He really, _really_ needed to sleep. If he was going to do this every day, transport eight people across the world and back, he was going to have to spend at least twelve hours of every day sleeping.

He struggled to stand, vaguely feeling relieved that there was no throwing up this time, only a little dry-retching, before there was a hand at his elbow.

Cora's green eyes held him still. “You okay?”

Stiles tried to smile, but it came out as a yawn. “Yeah, I just... It kind of drained me.”

Cora's face was sympathetic, but there was a hard glint in her eyes that Stiles couldn't miss. “You should stay here the night.”

Stiles automatically glanced at Derek, who had looked up at him at the same time, while the rest of the pack chattered about the files and documents they had found.

He looked back at Cora. “I don't think that's a good idea, Cora.”

Cora's grip on his elbow tightened, and he yelped, yanking it away. “Ow! Dude, what the hell?”

She smiled sweetly. “You can take my bed. I'll make you pancakes in the morning. If you snore, I'll smother you with my pillow.”

She sauntered off to her room, and Stiles called after her, “You know, I've faced bigger threats than you!” She replied with giving him the middle finger, before disappearing up the steps.

Stiles swayed on his feet and blinked his eyes open. “I got a lead, by the way,” he told the others. “There are no dragons in China, but there might be a dragon expert. She's...” He yawned again. “She's a werewolf, and I have no idea how friendly she is, so I'll go by myself.”

Scott was already shaking his head before Stiles had even finished. “No way, what if she attacks you?”

Stiles scoffed. “I can handle a werewolf. I can't, however, handle two werewolves fighting it out in front of me. You guys are very territorial.” He glanced at the spiral staircase and he made his way towards it just as Cora came down. She narrowed her eyes at him, crossing her arms at the bottom step. “No masturbating in my bed. Don't touch anything. Don't use magic.”

“Why can't I use magic?” Stiles whined.

Cora wrinkled her nose. “It gives off a... disturbing smell.”

Stiles grunted and shoved past her. It wasn't _disturbing_.

* * *

Stiles woke in the middle of the night to harsh whispers outside his door.

“-sleeping, Cora. He needs to sleep.” That was obviously Derek's voice.

“He isn't anymore,” came the reply. The door was yanked open just as Stiles was sitting up, Derek was pushed into the room. He stumbled on something and swore, turning the light on when the door closed behind him.

“Dude,” Stiles grumbled. “You're interrupting my beauty sleep.”

“You don't need it,” Derek blurted, before scratching at the back of his neck nervously, his cheeks pink. His hair was bed-ruffled, and he was wearing a tank top and sweatpants, so he was obviously just woken up by Cora.

Stiles rubbed at his eyes and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“I'm sorry,” Derek said. The stoic, angry face he had been wearing for the past couple of weeks was gone, replaced with an open, earnest expression that Stiles was sure only came with the vulnerability of sleep-deprivation. Cora was a smart girl, Stiles had to give her that.

“You were right,” Derek continued, his voice rough. “I just... I want you to be happy, Stiles. And I've put too much on you, I know that.”

Stiles sighed. “You don't need to apologize.”

Derek clenched his fists. “I do. We need to talk about this.”

“I don't know, I'm a fan of ignoring a problem until it eventually goes away,” Stiles said, because it was the middle of the night, Cora's bed was _really_ comfortable, and he could could feel his magic moving sluggishly around him. And some part of him, some selfish part, wanted it to never be resolved, this thing between them. He would inspect that feeling at a later date.

“Too bad,” Derek growled. Stiles had almost forgotten how grumpy he got when he was tired. “Do you know what you smell like, Stiles?”

Stiles tilted his head, resigned to the fact that he was going to have this conversation because Derek was a stubborn ass. “Old Spice and bubblegum? Ice cream and cats?”

“You smell lonely. And you smell scared. And it's _all_ _the time_. So you can't blame me for wanting to change that.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, maybe I should start wearing more deodorant, then,” Stiles snarked. “I don't want to inconvenience you.”

Derek dragged a hand down his face and sighed. “That's not what I meant. You're pushing me away, Stiles, and I want to know why.”

Stiles shook his head. “I'm not,” he denied weakly.

“What are you so afraid of? I'm not like _him_.”

Derek was way off base. He was _nothing_ like Aengus, he was the complete opposite. He was sweet, genuine, a terrible liar, and selfless to a fault.

“Shit,” Stiles muttered. “I know you're not, Derek. It's got nothing to do with him, not really.”

“Then what is it?” Derek's tone had gone soft, like he was trying to calm down a feral animal.

 _Screw it_. “I'm afraid of losing you.” The words came out easier than Stiles had thought they would; he'd never told this to any of his lovers before. Then again, none of them were Derek. “I'm afraid that we'll never find the Grail, or it won't work, and I'll just watch you and the pack whither and die. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Derek's face went blank, unreadable. “Stiles-”

“And nothing you can say will reassure me,” Stiles cut in. “I've been through it before. Men and women that I've loved... they eventually get sick of me. Unchanging, a cruel reminder of their youth. They want someone who won't be mistaken for their grandson, Derek. And that's the best-case scenario.”

Derek shook his head. “No, that won't happen. Not to us. We'll.. we'll find a way, Stiles. You're _pack_.”

Stiles ran a hand through his hair. “I really need to sleep, Derek,” he said.

Derek nodded, but didn't make any move to leave.

After a few moments of staring at each other, Stiles caved. He patted the bed and flopped down on it. “Turn off the light, would you?”

* * *

Stiles woke to the smell of pancakes. He moaned and turned over as much as he could with the pair of muscly that arms that were wrapped around him. “I'm marrying Cora. I'll give you five goats,” he mumbled.

Derek just grunted and buried his nose in the crook of Stiles' neck, and Stiles let him stay there for a while.

But when Derek starting huffing hot breaths against Stiles' skin, he jerked back with a little laugh. “That tickles, you dick.” He pulled away from Derek and stood up, slapping him on the ass. “Pancakes.”

Cora was glaring at the pan when Stiles walked in, and he almost walked right out because it was too early in the morning to deal with Cora's hostility.

But, _pancakes_. His magic was recharged, but it would burn right through him if he didn't eat enough.

She handed him a plate and gave him a smirk. “Did you sleep well?”

Stiles pulled a face. “Yeah, thank you for that. What I really needed while I was sleep-deprived and drained was a talk about feelings.”

Cora waved the spatula at him threateningly. “You better not have had sex on my bed.”

Stiles grinned. “Yeah, well, you only outlawed _masturbation_ , so-”

“Coffee,” Derek grunted, trudging into the kitchen.

“And here we see the cavewolf in his natural habitat. See how he communicates with his pack, asserting dominance with red-eyed glares while he barks out orders in subvocal grunts.”

Stiles was met with the twin glares of the Hale siblings, before Cora sighed and turned to Derek. “I'm not your kitchen bitch, Derek. Make your own damn coffee.”

“Why can't you go to school like the rest of the pack?” Derek grumbled.

Cora slammed a plate of pancakes on the table next to Stiles before she started making her own. “Because I've already graduated high school. And it's boring. And smelly.”

“Amen,” Stiles butted in, holding up a forkful of pancake in a toast before shoving it in his mouth. “I'm never going to that shithole again,” he mumbled. “They got the civil war completely wrong. I asked the history teacher, and the bastard said he had never even _heard_ of me. I'm famous!”

“Sure you are,” Derek commented, sitting down next to him with a coffee.

“Don't front, you totally fangirled over _Taliesin Ben Beirdd_. You have books and everything.”

“Which you stole and autographed.”

Stiles grinned. “Yeah. You could sell them. I've got a fanbase in Norway that would pay millions to touch the dirt I walked on.”

Cora snorted, sitting across from Stiles and kicking his feet. “Only you would use your immortality to create a cult.”

“ _Fanbase_ ,” Stiles corrected. “They're a fanbase.” He was relaxing quickly, returning to what he had before everything went screwy – waking up with Derek, bantering with Cora, the very thing that scared him in the first place. Derek must have noticed the way Stiles' fork stopped halfway to his mouth, and he nudged Stiles' knee with his own, gently, and gave him a soft look.

Stiles avoided his eyes and focused on his pancakes, feeling everything in him calm down, everything in him settle.

“Stiles, your phone was going off,” Cora said conversationally. “So I threw it against the wall.”

Stiles gaped, and a piece of pancake fell out of his mouth attractively. “What the hell, Cora?”

Cora shrugged. “It was pissing me off. It's not _broken_ , just a little beaten up.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows at Derek. “Is this a werewolf thing, or a Hale thing? You can't solve problems with violence! Where's my phone?”

Derek choked out a laugh into his coffee mug, while Cora smirked, reaching into the pocket of her jeans and bringing out Stiles' phone, beaten and cracked, almost hanging in pieces.

Stiles gently tapped the lock button and it lit up, displaying about six unopened messages on the lock screen. “Just a couple of jobs, nothing to worry about.” He glared at Cora. “You're buying me a new phone.”

“I always assumed you were one of those old people that didn't know how to send an email,” Cora replied lightly.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at her and pushed his empty plate away. “Yeah, well you're a bully, and I don't have to take this from you. I'm going to Shanghai to find this werewolf.”

Derek tensed. “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I survived two thousand years without a werewolf babysitter. I think I'll be fine.” And with that closing sentence, Stiles shifted, pushing his magic out of him, his hand gripping his phone as the wave of change came over him, and he landed in Liang and Sa-kota's bar.

Who were making out. Very pornographically. On the bar.

“Aw, guys, come on. I eat on that,” Stiles groaned, poking Liang in the side.

Liang looked up, breaking away from his wife, who slid off her husband and smoothed her shirt out. “You could call before you come, you know,” he grumbled, getting off the bar and glowering at Stiles.

“Too expensive. So, where's this werewolf?”

“Hi, Sa-kota, hi Liang, it's great to see you, what have you been up to?” Sa-kota said, butchering an imitation of Stiles' voice.

“Hey, I know what you've been up to. Making babies and all that jazz, which violates _so_ many health and safety codes. Don't you have an apartment?”

Liang's face went red. “Uh, no. We've been kicked out. Paying for Xiang's rest home fees kinda left us dry. We've been sleeping in the backroom.”

Stiles shrugged. “I'll give you some money, it'll be fine. I owe Xiang anyway, for that time he backed me up in a bar fight. With a couple of aswangs.”

Liang winced in sympathy. Aswangs were not pretty. “You sure?”

Stiles waved off his hesitation. For some reason, mortals were weird about borrowing money. Stiles had lived two thousand years, he knew how to manage his own money. “Anyway, this werewolf. What can you tell me about her?”

Sa-kota brushed a hand through her hair, smoothing it down. “Her name is Satomi. She's grouchy, but nice enough. Very old. Older than any werewolf I've ever known.”

Stiles nodded. “And where is she?”

Sa-kota grinned. “She's next door,” she said, tilting her head to the right.

“Seriously? I could've talked to her yesterday!”

Liang put an arm around his wife's shoulders. “But then you wouldn't have come back,” he pointed out.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You two are ridiculous.” He walked to the door, pausing with his hand curled around the door frame. “You know, if you actually _opened_ the bar, you might get some money.”

Liang waved a hand dismissively. “I've been dealing with a poltergeist. Once I'm done, I'll reopen.”

Stiles nodded. He'd offer to help, but Liang had it sorted. He and Sa-kota came from families of werecats, and poltergeists loved pranking werecats most of all, so Liang was well-acquainted with methods of getting rid of them. “Well, get back to the baby-making. Name your first born after me.”

Stiles gave the house Satomi lived in a scrutinizing look. He wasn't fond of old people. They always acted like they knew more than Stiles. Which, obviously, wasn't true. He doubted they knew what Queen Elizabeth the First preferred for dinner (it was roast lamb, by the way).

The door opened to reveal an elderly woman, but not as elderly as Stiles had expected, in jeans and a shirt, scowling at him. “Hurry up, boy. I haven't got all day.” She turned around and disappeared back inside her house, leaving the door open for Stiles to follow.

“I'm not a boy,” Stiles muttered, following her.

Her house was unusually airy, and there were hand-painted blossoms decorating the walls. The triskele, just like Derek's tattoo, was painted on each of the doors, but Stiles could tell that Satomi lived alone.

“Do you have a pack?” Stiles asked her back, while she led him into the kitchen.

“Don't ask stupid questions,” she replied, her voice bearing the hint of a Japanese accent. “What do you want dragons for?” She sat at the small wooden table in the middle of the kitchen and tilted her head for Stiles to follow.

“You heard our conversation?”

Satomi narrowed her eyes. “Just because I am old, does not mean I am weak. My hearing grows with age.”

“Forgive me if I'm wrong, because I don't have much experience in growing older, but isn't it the other way around?”

Satomi's eyes bled a familiar red. “I can't help you with dragons, Taliesin Ben Beirdd.”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah, I heard they're extinct. I just don't believe it.”

When Satomi leaned forward, towards Stiles, her eyes sparkled with interest. “In China, yes. In Europe, they've learned to hide themselves from hunters. And I know of one, very friendly and very old, in Wales.” She smiled, a bare hint of one, and it seemed to be teasing Stiles. “But you've been exiled from your homeland, haven't you?”

Stiles huffed. “The people who exiled me are long dead. And the reasons were stupid.” Stiles was already suffering from an aversion to cows, he didn't deserve to be exiled on top of that.

“So I can't help you,” Satomi finished, her face settling on an amused expression.

“But...?” Stiles pried, because there was more. She wouldn't have dragged him inside just to tell him that.

“But I _might_ know of a dragon. My memory is not as sharp as my hearing, and I may need persuasion.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I can give you money.”

Satomi waved a hand dismissively. “I don't want your money. I want your knowledge. Your companionship.” At Stiles' confused expression, she continued, “You are the oldest living creature to walk this earth short of the gods. Is it not believable that I would want to learn from you?”

Stiles didn't even need to consider it. Talking to old werewolves was loads more fun than living an eternity alone. He hoped. “Fine. Where's the dragon?”

Satomi smiled, her fingers clasped together. “This dragon is unaware of his potential. He collects shiny things and believes it to be a hobby, instead of a necessity. American, of course. Like most who are oblivious idiots.”

Stiles titled his head in agreement. Americans sucked. He preferred the Tongans. They knew how to treat a guy right.

“This dragon was drawn to a small town by a nemeton. I'm not sure if you've heard of Beacon Hills?”

Of- _fucking_ -course. It was right under his nose the whole time.

“I know of it, but I deactivated the nemeton decades ago,” Stiles said. It was how he met Alan Deaton; Deaton paid him to put the tree to rest before it caused too much trouble.

Satomi shrugged. “I won't pretend to know everything. I gave you your information.”

Stiles gave her a grin and stood up from the table. “And you're a saint for that. Sa-kota should have my number, but I have to warn you: I'm very busy.”

Satomi nodded. “I have nothing but time.”

He glanced at the door briefly, before holding out his hand for Satomi to shake. But, instead, she sniffed at the air. “You smell like werewolves,” she noted curiously.

“I joined a-” Stiles was interrupted by his cell phone playing ACDC loudly. He cursed and took his phone out to see Boyd's name on the display. The screen was still cracked, so he ran a little zap of magic through it to fix it, before answering.

“Can't a guy get a moment of peace for once in his life?” Stiles grumbled, throwing an apologetic smile at Satomi.

“You've had two thousand years to find your peace, Tals,” a horribly familiar Irish voice drawled over the phone. “It's time to get back in the game, _leann_ _á_ _n_.” The line went dead and Stiles tried to put it back in his pocket, but somehow his grip failed and it fell to the floor.

“Taliesin?” Satomi asked, catching his eye with a concerned look.

Stiles shook his head, his breath quickening, his hands shaking. And then, without warning, he left.

* * *

When he got to Derek's loft a second later, his magic was running on pure adrenaline, buzzing around his body and begging to be used.

“Derek?” Stiles called out, his voice thin with panic. “Cora?”

They both came out of the kitchen, still in sweatpants and sleep-mussed hair, and Stiles strode towards them, across the loft.

“That was quick,” Cora noted, raising an eyebrow.

“Where are the others?” Stiles demanded. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, and it was just getting louder.

“School,” Derek answered, furrowing his brow. “Stiles, what's going on?”

Stiles turned his back on them, brushing a hand through his hair and attempting to control his heartbeat. “He's got them. Or Boyd, at least.”

“Who's got them?” Cora asked harshly, grabbing his shoulder and turning him around tp face them.

Stiles met Derek's eyes helplessly. “Aengus.”

The reaction was instant. Derek's eyes flashed red briefly, and he closed them. “I can't feel any distress,” he said.

“We have to go to the school, catch a scent,” Cora suggested, panic creeping into her voice.

Stiles let out a breath. “You didn't summon him, did you?” he asked Derek, trying to keep the accusation out of his tone. “Or Lydia?”

Derek pushed past Stiles, heading for the door. “No one did, Stiles.” He turned back. “Are you sure? What happened?”

Stiles and Cora followed him out the door, and he told them what had happened in the elevator. “I don't know how he found me. I'm sorry,” he blurted, clenching his fists and avoiding the eyes of the Hales.

“It's not your fault,” Derek bit out. His speech was garbled, and Stiles didn't have to look to know that he was speaking around fangs. He didn't sound like he believed it, or maybe that was just Stiles.

“Do you know how to deal with him?” Cora asked in a gentler tone.

That was the thing. Aengus was the only god Stiles had ever encountered, and he never expected to encounter him again, knowing how bored they get with humanity. He had research, sure, but it was all theory never put into practise for lack of subjects. “No, I don't... He's a _god_ , Cora. The best I can do is talk to him, negotiate something. Play the game.”

Stiles couldn't sit still, his magic was like a form of ADHD with him. The drive to the school was torture, the tension bordering on painful. No one talked, no one looked at each other.

When they pulled up, the school looked normal. Average. But Stiles' magic was already feeling a pull, a recognition, like he had thousands of years ago, when he was still learning.

“Let me do the talking,” Stiles said, getting out of the car. “You do the sniffing.”

“They're my _pack_ ,” Derek replied, his face human again.

“He's my ex,” Stiles snapped. “This is on me. Let me deal with it.”

Derek opened his mouth, probably to argue his point, when Cora laid a hand on his arm, before looking to Stiles. “What does he want from you?”

Stiles shrugged, letting out a bitter laugh. “My life. My companionship. Entertainment.” He shook his head. “Just get sniffing.”

Derek sniffed at the air, his eyes turning red for a brief second. “Lydia's perfume is the strongest scent. They're... they're _under_ the school.”

It took a second for Stiles to figure it out. “The vault. _Shit_.” Stiles took off in the direction of the Beacon Hills High School sign.

“The _vault_? You mean-”

“The Hale family vault. Your vault. The first I came to Beacon Hills, it was to deactivate the nemeton about ten years back, and since I blocked off the basement under it, Deaton employed me to make the vault for your werewolfy shit,” Stiles explained hurriedly, speeding up to a run.

“ _You_ made the vault?” Cora asked, not even slightly out of breath.

“Now's not really the time to be discussing it,” Derek growled. They stopped in front of the sign, and Derek tilted his head. “There's only six heartbeats.”

Stiles silently counted everyone up in his head. “So he's not in there?”

“He might not have a heartbeat,” Cora pointed out.

Stiles swore under his breath and laid a palm flat on the sign, which was all the effort he needed to open it. Since he didn't have claws or anything.

The sign spun around slowly, concrete grating against concrete to expose the narrow staircase that Stiles remembered crafting. He looked back at Derek and Cora.

Derek nodded, and Cora's eyes had already turned golden. “Their heartbeats are slow,” she said. “They're unconscious.”

Stiles swallowed down on the panic that immediately rose, and started down the stairs. When he got to the bottom, he looked around the room.

The pack were lying on the ground by the wall, no sign of injury, but obviously dead to the world. Stiles scanned the room for signs of Aengus. His magic was bristling, quivering, but his eyes couldn't make him out.

“Taliesin,” a voice breathed into his ear. Stiles turned his head, but there was no one there.

A disembodied laugh rang out through the air, and Stiles heard Derek's growl cut through it.

“Aengus,” Stiles called out, his voice steady. “Show yourself.”

And he did, fading into view with a smug smirk on his face, the same face that Stiles had fallen in love with two thousand years ago. Blonde, blue eyes, an inch shorter than Stiles.

“You haven't changed a bit!” Aengus exclaimed, amusement making his eyes twinkle. His Irish accent was thicker than Stiles', untainted by America.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked him warily. “Why are you here?”

Aengus tilted his head and took a step closer to Stiles, glancing at Derek when he let out an aborted snarl. “I keep tabs on you, pet. And someone's been a busy boy,” he noted, giving Stiles a once-over that made his skin crawl. “It's been centuries since you've tried to look for the Grail.”

“It's none of your business,” Stiles snapped. “Let them go.”

Aengus frowned, and then looked behind him at the teenagers piled by the wall. “Oh, you mean them?” He grinned. “Make me,” he said playfully, a smile dancing on his face.

“This isn't one of our games, Aengus,” Stiles growled.

“Isn't it? Do you actually remember our games?”

He glared at Aengus coldly. “ If you want me, take me, and leave them out of it.”

Aengus beamed. “ _Yes!_ I want _you,_ Taliesin. I never should have thrown you away.”

Stiles walked around Aengus, keeping those blue eyes on himself instead of Derek and Cora. “It took you a while to realise your mistake.”

“Stiles-” Derek growled out, his eyes darting between Aengus and Stiles with panic.

“Stiles? Is that what they call you?” Aengus grinned. “Tell you what, _Stiles_ , your pets here get to walk away, Scout's honour. But I want you.” He prowled closer. “I want to do whatever I want with you. And I'll get it either way. I just don't want to get blood on this suit. It's Italian.”

Stiles' heartbeat was raging inside his chest, and his magic was wearing him down, the adrenaline draining him. “Okay,” he said, his voice short and tight.

Aengus brightened and waved a hand in Derek and Cora's direction. “Leave us,” he ordered, his eyes still on Stiles, staring hungrily.

Cora ran to her packmates, slapping Scott on the face to wake him up. But Derek stayed standing still, looking at Stiles in horror. “No, we're not leaving you.”

“Derek,” Stiles said, his voice steely and strong. “Leave.”

Derek shook his head, and Aengus gave him a once-over. “Oh, really?” He clapped his hands together. “On second thoughts, this might be fun.”

Stiles glared at Derek, whose eyes turned red stubbornly, taking a step forward. “Get out of here, you _moron_.”

Aengus shook his head and held a hand out in Stiles' direction, still looking at Derek, and closed it into a fist. Stiles choked on the tightening of his windpipe, gripping at his neck. He fell to his knees and gasped for breath.

Aengus loosened his hold, and Stiles opened his mouth to tell Derek to run, but he found his speech gone, no noise coming out of his mouth.

“So, _alpha_ ,” Aengus taunted, “tell me, is Tals as good for you as he was for me? I taught him everything I know.”

Stiles shook his head, struggling to his feet, but he was pushed back down by an invisible force.

“I mean, I know he's no saint, but it didn't take him long to get over me. He's actually been married before, did he tell you?” Aengus grinned, while Stiles squirmed, needing to be on his feet _yesterday_.

Scott was awake now, staring at the situation in front of him with confusion and slight horror. He met Stiles' eyes and Stiles shook his head at him. Scott was nothing but an annoying bug to Aengus, he would be killed without a second thought.

Cora slapped Lydia's face, hard, and Lydia jerked awake with a small scream. Aengus took no notice.

Aengus took a few steps towards Derek, who looked about ready to pounce. The walked in circles around each other. “It kills you, doesn't it? Having to leave Stiles behind. That's why you've been looking for this.” And a cup materialised in Aengus' hand, his pinky finger swinging it around by the handle leisurely. It was plain, golden, no gems and lighter than it looked. “I stole it from that dragon. I could let you drink from it, I suppose.”

Stiles mouthed out Derek's name in a silent scream, just as Cora woke up Erica, the last. They stood around, watching, because there was nothing else they could do. Aengus swirled a finger in the empty cup and it filled with water.

“But Stiles is _mine_. Not yours.” Aengus wagged a finger chidingly. “I know what I'll do, though.”

And within a millisecond, he was across the room, one arm around Cora, pulling her hair back, the other tilting the water from the cup into her mouth, which was hanging open in shock. Derek was already half way across the room but Stiles was watching it happen in slow motion. He was too late.

Cora choked and spluttered, and Aengus pulled away with a cheeky smile, just as Derek's claws buried themselves in Aengus' chest. Stiles stumbled to his feet immediately, at Cora's side in an instant as she fell to the ground, pressing her to his side, and smoothing the hair away from her face.

Aengus grabbed Derek's neck and threw him across the room. “Congrats. Your sister is going to watch you die as well.”

Scott growled, the change distorting the muscles in his face, and Isaac and Boyd followed suit.

“Scott, don't,” Stiles said, his voice rough and weak. He cleared his throat and looked up at Aengus. “Will drinking from it cure her?”

Aengus sighed. “No, you _moron._ It will kill her, it will kill you. That's why, every time you come close to it, I stop you.”

Stiles stood up, dragging Cora with him. She was weakening, sagging against him, and Stiles knew what would follow. She'd pass out, wake up a few minutes later with a hollow feeling in her chest and the weight of eternity in front of her.

Lydia and Erica darted forward and took her from Stiles. Derek got back on his feet, but before he could do anything stupid, Stiles blocked his movements, freezing him in place.

“So there's no way to become mortal again? No way at all?”

Aengus shook his head, bouncing on his toes. “Nope. You're stuck that way, _leann_ _á_ _n_.” His face softened. “Come with me. Leave this wolf to his lost sister. You deserve more.”

Stiles stiffened, straightening up. “I deserve a god that will just chuck me away when he gets bored of me again? Is that what I deserve?” He shook his head, and stepped closer to Aengus. “I've learned a few things in the years, Aengus. I've learnt about love and loss, I've learned how to handle myself, I've learned to adapt.” Stiles gave Aengus a feral grin, his hands coming up between them slowly. His mind rifled through all of his research on gods, all the theories. “I've learned other things.”

And Stiles closed his eyes, his hands shaking slightly as the magic poured out of them, a blue light emanating from his hands. There was a clang as something fell, but Stiles was completely focused on emptying himself, and on his target.

He could feel Aengus, his power, how dangerous and old he was. Stiles couldn't kill him. He wasn't sure if banishing him would work, but it was all he could do.

The last trickle of magic left his body and he opened his eyes, looking at nothing, because all that was in front of him were the shelves of artifacts from the Hale family. No god.

“Stiles?” Scott asked hesitantly. Stiles, with a lot of effort, raised his eyes to Scott. “Are you okay? Is he gone?”

Stiles nodded grimly. Instead of feeling exhausted, Stiles felt energised, alert. What he had done was theoretical, and it was pure chance that he chose the right method to banish a god. He felt empty without his magic filling him up. It would take him a while to replenish it.

“For a while, at least.”

Scott's face was relieved, but Stiles took in Isaac's face, open-mouthed at the start of a protest, looking over his shoulder, and spun around.

Derek was there, holding the Grail in one hand while the other poured a jar of _something_ into it. A sniff at the air told him it was some kind of alcohol, taken from the shelf next to him.

“Derek,” Stiles said cautiously. “Don't.”

Derek looked up at him, setting the jar back down on the shelf. He looked over at Cora, who had already passed out in Erica and Lydia's arms. “I have to.”

“No you don't,” Stiles pleaded. He took another step forward, and Derek's arm twitched with the Grail in it, raising it slightly as though he were afraid Stiles would take it away. “You _can't_ , Derek.”

Derek met his eyes, his gaze vulnerable and determined. “I can't... My _sister_ , Stiles. She can't – She can't be alone.”

Stiles felt the tears well up, out of pure fear, and he shook his head. “You don't know what it's like, Derek. You don't want to do this to yourself. We'll... We'll find a way to cure it, okay?”

The rest of the pack seemed to be holding their breaths, paralysed.

“Derek,” Erica started. Derek looked at her and she inhaled sharply. “Think about this.” Stiles thought he heard Isaac whine slightly.

But Derek had already made up his mind, and Stiles couldn't get to him fast enough as he tipped his head back slightly and downed the alcohol.

Stiles knocked the Grail out of his hands a second too late, and before he could stop himself, his fist was swinging to Derek's face, faster than the werewolf could dodge it, and it connected with his nose.

“You asshole!” Stiles breathed out as Derek stumbled back slightly. “You... How _could_ you?” Stiles asked, his voice cracking. He felt a tear slide down his cheek. “Why... God, Derek, _no_. I never -” He took a step back and dragged a hand down his face. “I never wanted this, not you.”

The silence in the air was deafening, a solid entity, a presence in the room with them.

“Stiles,” Isaac started heavily, “we need to get out of here.”

Stiles nodded, swallowing back all the words he could've screamed at Derek. “We... Yeah, we should go. Um, to Deaton's.” He looked at the pack, aware that Derek's eyes were on him, hot on his skin. “Unless you want to finish the school day?”

* * *

Cora woke up on the drive over, with Stiles driving the Camaro and Derek passed out in the back. She seemed disoriented, clawing at her seatbelt with human fingernails, before slumping in her seat and taking a few deep breaths.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Stiles greeted, his eyes still on the road.

“Stiles?” Cora asked, her voice tiny and young. Stiles' fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “What... What happened? Where's Derek?”

Stiles let out a small, hysterically bitter laugh. “Welcome to Team Immortal. The members consist of everyone in this car.”

Cora frowned. “What...?”

“He forced you to drink from the Grail, Cora,” Stiles told her, his voice neutral, detached. “And after I got rid of him, Derek drank from it.”

“ _What_?!”

Stiles parked in front of the animal clinic, Allison's and Lydia's cars following suit behind them. He shut the engine off and turned to Cora.

“Cora, you're like me now, okay? Except you're still a werewolf and you're not alone because your idiot of a brother decided to damn himself as well.” He unclipped his belt and got out of the car before Cora could reply, opening the back door and grabbing Derek. Isaac and Boyd came out of Allison's car and helped him drag Derek up to the clinic. Cora stayed back, letting everybody else burst through the doors before her. When Stiles glanced back at her, she had a hand to her chest, as though she just felt the emptiness there.

Deaton lifted the divider and led them through, all of them barely fitting in the operating room. His face was serious and emotionless, but Stiles had known the guy for a while. He knew that the veterinarian was disturbed.

“What do you need?” Deaton asked, getting straight to the point.

“Warding. Against gods.” Derek was already starting to stir, so Stiles and Isaac carefully laid him down on the ground, his back resting against the wall.

“Why can't you do it?”

Stiles brushed a hand through his hair. “I'd need an immediate recharge, I sort of completely drained myself.”

Deaton nodded, turning to his shelves and moving the jars around.

“Is he going to be okay?” Cora asked quietly, tilting her head at Derek.

Stiles gave her a sad look. “As okay as you are.”

Cora nodded, and didn't say anything else. Stiles swallowed down the reassurances he could have given her, because they'd all be false.

Scott strode across the room and slammed into Stiles with the force of his relieved hug, and Stiles hugged him back. Scott pulled away. “Are you okay?”

Stiles nodded, keeping his gaze on the ground. “I'm fine. We just gotta get you guys warded up.”

Deaton turned back around with a jar of some kind of powder. “I ran out of elder ash, so you will need cedar and cherry together. They will disorientate whatever hostile supernatural being you've dealt with in the past, possibly causing temporary amnesia.” He opened the jars and dipped his finger into the ash, turning to Stiles. Stiles tilted his head at Derek, so Deaton kneeled down in front of Derek.

The symbols he traced onto Derek's forehead with a steady hand were basic, simple, and ones Stiles had never thought of using before, mainly because he thought Aengus was done with him a long time ago.

Derek blinked his eyes open just as Deaton had finished, and his eyes sought out Cora instantly. Stiles turned away as Cora leaped at him, holding him in a fierce hug. Lydia came up behind him, identifiable by her perfume, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks. For saving us.”

Stiles ducked his head as Deaton came up to him, letting him trace the symbols. “It was my mess,” he told her quietly. “I shouldn't have stayed here.”

Deaton frowned slightly from in front of him, but kept his mouth shut. Stiles could feel all eyes on him, but he didn't meet them.

“Stiles...” Lydia trailed off, unable to think of something to say. Deaton moved on to her, and Stiles backed to the door. Scott made a move to follow, but was held back by Allison.

“I'm sorry,” was all he said, and then he was out the door.

He needed to get really, _really_ drunk. Must be the Irish in him. 

* * *

 

“I've been looking for you,” a vaguely familiar voice said.

Stiles jerked up from his bed with a start, and glared at the figure in the door. “Knocking is polite,” he said. His accent came through thickly, but he couldn't be bothered caring.

Sheriff Stilinski raised an eyebrow and closed the door behind him, sitting in the armchair across from the bed as Stiles sat up in it. The room was small and cheap, and there was barely three feet between them. “What do you want? I've kept my clothes on this time.”

“I'm taking preemptive action to ensure we don't have another indecent exposure charge for Hale to have to deal with.”

Stiles pulled a face and scratched at the back of his neck. “I'm fine. I'm leaving town-”

“-as soon as you've recharged?”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “What do you know?”

The sheriff shrugged. “My wife is a witch. She may be dead but she ain't useless. She tells me things. Like the fact that some kid is drinking himself into a coma every night while the people who care for him most are worried sick.”

Stiles stood up and shuffled to the counter, getting out a glass and filling it with water. “I'm fine. And, dude, not a kid.”

“Well I have to say, you don't look your age.”

Stiles smirked without any feeling to it, turning back to the sheriff. “Thanks. Is that all? Because I did not make myself stink like a liquor store and disguise my scent and hole up in a questionably-sanitary motel for a talk about feelings.”

The sheriff smiled at that, though it seemed a little sad. “I'm friends with Melissa. She and that Scott boy are going out of their minds.”

Stiles shrugged, and downed the rest of his water. “They'll get over it,” he replied flippantly. It's what everyone else did.

“Son, this is the second time I've met you and I can already tell you that you're hard to forget.” He paused for a second, his voice going quieter, more hushed. “Claudia told me what happened to the Hales. She sensed it. She wants me to tell you that you're a fool for leaving them.”

Stiles snorted. “Straight to the point. She sounds like a charmer.” His tone was genuine, though, so he wouldn't offend Stilinski. He's been alive long enough to appreciate up-front people.

The sheriff had a small smile on his face. “Yeah, she is. Won't leave me alone, even after death. Keeps pestering me about my cholesterol.”

Stiles yawned and scratched idly at his hair. “At least you still have her,” he said around the yawn. He sobered and gave Stilinski a sober look. “At least she hasn't left you.”

“Is that what you're afraid of?”

Stiles laughed bitterly, raising his empty glass. “I'm not about to talk about this with someone I barely know.”

The sheriff leaned forward in the armchair, giving Stiles a scrutinizing look. “So what are you going to do once you've... recharged or whatever? Just up and leave?”

Stiles tilted his head slightly at the man. “What else can I do? Those kids are too forgiving. I put them in danger. I can't do that again. There's no moral crisis here, there's no internal struggle. There's one logical decision, and I'm going to take it.”

“Because you're always the logical one, Stiles? What about what you _want_?”

Stiles rubbed at his face. “That's beside the point. I... Do we have to have this conversation? I may be blessed with mild hangovers, but I still have a headache and an aversion to therapy from unqualified law-enforcement officers.”

The sheriff stood up, making for the door. He stopped with one hand on the handle. “Stiles, I was the first officer on the sight of the Hale fire. I talked to Derek and Laura afterwards. Those kids have lost a lot, and you think it's okay that they lose one more person?” He opened the door and stepped through it.

“Playing with guilt is playing dirty!” Stiles called after him. He sighed, sitting down on the bed. “Damn you, Claudia. Getting your husband to do your dirty work for you.”

Stiles could feel his magic now. He'd give it a few more hours and he could get back to Shanghai. Maybe stay with Liang and Sa-kota for a while, go apartment-hunting with them.

On second thoughts, he may have had a lot of sexual experience, but he wasn't into voyeurism, and those two were at it like rabbits on the best of days.

Stiles flopped back, his head hitting the pillow, and considered his options.

  1. ~~Stay~~. Go to Shanghai. Start up a noodle house. There were never enough noodle houses.

  2. ~~Stay~~. Move to Peru, for no other reason than to find a secluded place there and step away from mortals for a couple of decades. That could be therapeutic. Definitely beneficial. He could start a goat herd.

  3. ~~Stay~~. Vegas. Gambling and pretty women and pretty men. He was overdue for Vegas.




The options floated through his mind aimlessly, and he entertained the notion of Peru. He had always admired the mountains. He had been there a few times. The last time, the government had actually ordered him out of the country, exiled him. But hey, they'd all be dead by now, and if _he's_ forgotten what he did that was so illegal, then they would've. He probably stole a goat or something. That was one of his drunk quirks.

Stiles was just about to get off the bed and into the – frankly, disgustingly gross in every sense of the word – shower, when a weird tingly sensation came over him. He closed his eyes to stop himself from rolling them. That would be Lydia, trying to summon him.

Stiles ignored the itch to follow the call, because it wasn't as though he had enough energy to go to her anyway.

But then her voice seemed to float through the air in a way it hadn't before, and she said, triumphantly, _Found him_.

“Shit,” Stiles muttered. Looked like he wasn't going to be having a shower then. Werewolves tend to avoid people who stunk like vodka.

But, for some reason that he really couldn't put into words, when the door opened an hour later, Stiles was still in bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Have you come to convince me to stay?” he asked the ceiling. There were a few flies on it, just walking around each other in circles. He wondered if they were some abstract metaphor for his life or something. Probably.

“Yes,” came the answer.

Stiles closed his eyes. “I'm tired, Derek.”

He could hear Derek kneel by the bed. “I know you are,” he said softly.

Stiles sighed. “You're going to make me do all the talking, aren't you?”

“It seems to work out when you do,” he replied dryly.

“Not this time.” He opened his eyes and turned his head to see those pale green eyes, unchanged, staring back at him in sadness.

Derek opened his mouth, but it seemed to take a while for his words to come out. “When... When you killed Morgan, and I was hit with those emotions...”

“It's nothing like the real thing, is it?”

“Is this what you feel all the time?” Derek asked, his voice sounding like agony and empathy at the same time.

Stiles nodded, but didn't say anything, so Derek carried on. “I don't regret it. I can't leave Cora. I _won't_. I just got her back.”

Stiles sat up, leaning back on his elbows. “I understand, Derek, I do. But I was the one that put her in danger in the first place. If it weren't for me-”

“You can't change what happened, Stiles,” Derek interrupted. “I did this for her. But she's not the only one I don't want to leave.”

Stiles sucked in a breath. “Derek...”

Derek gave him a small smile. “I know what it feels like now. And I don't want you going through this alone. Never again. I won't let you leave us.”

Stiles probably had a stupid look on his face, two parts adoration and three parts disbelief. Because Derek was _really_ good at talking, he should do it more often. He seemed to know exactly what to say, know what Stiles hadn't known he needed to hear for over a thousand years.

When Stiles rolled onto his stomach and grabbed Derek's chin softly to press their lips into a kiss, it was a million times better than their first. This one was all longing and relief, it tasted like coffee and home.

Derek pushed him away, though, and pulled a face. “You taste like a hobo.”

Stiles laughed then, and maybe it was a little hysterical and completely embarrassing, but he buried his face into Derek's shoulder and just stayed there for a while.

“You won't leave me?”

Derek's arms tightened around him. “You won't be able to get rid of us.

**Author's Note:**

> The dragon is Jordan btw.  
> So I just realized that Stiles seems to run away a lot. Which kinda sucks that I wrote him like that but it's understandable?? Like, with his past, and yeah I'm too tired to make deep deductions about the behavior of a fictional character.  
> The series will say 'finished', but if I ever find inspiration to write a short drabble in this 'verse, I will. It just won't be too important to the plot of the main story.  
> [My tumblr](http://unadulterated-exasperation.tumblr.com/) is always open for asks if you wanna chat about the weather or whatever. It is cold right now. And I have no socks. So my toes are cold.


End file.
